


The Hedgehog's Dilemma, Part II

by orphan_account



Series: Human Instrumentality Project [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/F, Possibly implied Hyuroi, if you squint.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawkeye was nearly doubled over herself, her arms pressed into her abdomen, for the intensity of her laughter. “You look so <em>offended</em>.” Armstrong ripped the coat from her shoulder and hung it more forcefully than required on the rack.</p><p>The girl’s words tensed her fingers over the hem of the coat: “Auntie Ollie.” Others had used her name to strip her of her power. Olivier Mira Armstrong, reduced to Liv, to MIra, to to Olivi<em>-ah</em> as though the very shape of her name could affect reality. Now she had truly sailed over the cliff to rock bottom.</p><p>A nine-year-old girl calling her <em>Ollie</em>.</p><p>“I can handle Olive just fine,” she added.</p><p>A flash of memory: the first night, sometime after the disastrous attempt at a first date, the two of them sharing a bed, warm fingers ghosting over the curve of her torso to linger over the gooseflesh of her breasts, a murmur behind her—<em>Olive</em>, like a litany echoed over and over until the name settled down into the marrow of her fantasies—and the wash of moonlight over her eyelids as she turned towards the woman curled around her as an angel around a sinner—</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hedgehog's Dilemma, Part II

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my tongue-in-cheek named series _Human Instrumentality Project_. Prompt "Skills B - delegation versus subordination". Specifically, this handles the conflict between Mustang, a delegator, and Armstrong, a subordinator.
> 
> Special thanks to FKC for assuring me that it's absolutely kosher to rip apart things that fullmetal fans consider sacred.
> 
> Unedited/unbeta'd/etc.

Hawkeye was nearly doubled over herself, her arms pressed into her abdomen, for the intensity of her laughter. “You look so _offended_.” Armstrong ripped the coat from her shoulder and hung it more forcefully than required on the rack.

The girl’s words tensed her fingers over the hem of the coat: “Auntie Ollie.” Others had used her name to strip her of her power. Olivier Mira Armstrong, reduced to Liv, to MIra, to to Olivi _-ah_ as though the very shape of her name could affect reality. Now she had truly sailed over the cliff to rock bottom.

A nine-year-old girl calling her _Ollie_.

“I can handle Olive just fine,” she added.

A flash of memory: the first night, sometime after the disastrous attempt at a first date, the two of them sharing a bed, warm fingers ghosting over the curve of her torso to linger over the gooseflesh of her breasts, a murmur behind her— _Olive_ , like a litany echoed over and over until the name settled down into the marrow of her fantasies—and the wash of moonlight over her eyelids as she turned towards the woman curled around her as an angel around a sinner—

“But _Ollie_ is pushing it.” Armstrong spun on her heel to face Hawkeye. Automatically her body slid into parade rest. “If she were under _my_ —”

“Ah, but she’s not.” Hawkeye smirked at her. the corner of her mouth marked with arrogant carot. “If we ever have children, you’ll have to learn to be patient. As I have.”

“I’m perfectly patient,” Armstrong snapped instantly. Before she could seize upon another retort the front end of Hawkeye’s ends reached her in a jumble. _If we ever have children_.

If the mere existence of an icebox plastered with both of their names hyphenated could awaken a smile, then the mention of children sent her face into a palpably twitching mess. Surely she must have misheard. She stared up at Hawkeye, intent on asking, but the captain had vanished into the kitchen.

Armstrong inhaled. On a battlefield such a display of emotion could signal her end; the knuckles of her fingers ached. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Cycles of four and seven, four and seven, four and seven, until the rapid pulse in her throat slowed and the one in her heart thudded on at a steady rate.

She fixed her collar in the small mirror that hung above the coat rack. She had managed to orient in the direction of the kitchen when the door burst open— _again_ —and Gracia Hughes stepped inside, edging the door shut in an attempt at some protection from the bitter cold outside. “Oh! Olivier!”

Her fiancée’s words inscribed on her mental processes, Armstrong mustered a smile. Familiarity with the Hugheses’ situation and previous entanglement with the military did not a friendship make, if not a certain respect. “Gracia Hughes.” She extended her hand.

Grabbing her wrist, Hughes pulled her close for an embrace that Armstrong tolerated—Hawkeye’s request a silent mantra—for several seconds. Then the Führer stepped back. “Ah, just call me Gracia. My friends sometimes call me Gracie, even.” Hughes beamed dazzlingly, and Armstrong had the distinct impression that the woman could have won the election entirely by herself had she so much as blinked at the voting booths. “And may I call you—?”

“ _Olivier_.” Respect, yes. Not intimidation.

“Olivier. Congratulations on the engagement!” Now Hughes gripped her hand so tightly that the tendons in the back pinged painfully. “It’s wonderful to see you again, Olivier. And Riza’s here; how wonderful that, as well! She’s so _thrilled_ to be marrying you, you know. Now, could you tell the others that Paninya’n I’ll be just a tad longer with the cake than I thought? Thank you! We’ll get started with the dinner just as soon as I can get everything together! Thank you!”

The door slammed shut and Armstrong fingered the doorknob, as if assuring that Hughes had left. For a woman whom Hawkeye had described as patient and kind, Hughes had quite a rapid tongue.

And unless Armstrong had lost either her sense of her smell or her mind, Hughes had had a hint of alcohol on the breath. Not that Armstrong would judge one for drinking at a damn _party_. The line of her mouth thinned.

She would have to ask Hawkeye later. Speaking of Hawkeye, the kitchen beckoned, along with the message. When she turned back, however, she was confronted with a young man sporting a blond braid. A yellow rat’s tail. He snapped a salute. “Oi, uh, Gen—I mean, Führer Armstrong.”

“Fullmetal.”

Former Major Edward Elric made a strange sort of half-strangled noise in his throat. “Not you too.” He shoved his hands into his armpits, either cold or embarrassed. Hell if Armstrong knew. “Damn. It’s like I’m surrounded by, uh . . .”

“Care to finish that thought?”

“No, sir.”

She did not give him the benefit of a smile, but she dipped her chin ever so slightly in approval. “Hughes is retrieving a cake or something of the sort. Pass the message on.”

Edward freed his right hand to salute her again. “Uh, sure. By the way, I heard—from the jackass general—about the entire, uh, marriage, _thing_.” She tracked the downwards movement of his gaze to his left hand. To the ring on the fourth finger. “Y’know, congrats and stuff. You know when the wedding’ll be?”

Armstrong presented him with arched eyebrows and pursed lips; he seemed to hesitate, teetering on his heel, then solidified his stance. “I have no idea.” Clear, crisp, sharp. A statement not of uncertainty, but _of_ certainty. “But since Captain Hawkeye will undoubtedly invite the jackass general, as you said, I’ll be sure to invite you.” Edward blinked. Rubbed the back of his head in a manner half-sheepish and half-grasping for words. She swept past his passivity. “Tell the others.”

The kitchen. Damn, if Hawkeye was even still _in_ the fucking kitch—

“Ah. The Führer, descending from on high to mingle with the commoners.”

For an instant Armstrong considered drawing the gun from her holster and shooting him. She could chalk it up to an accident, something about the safety being off or otherwise. Yet she could not justify hurting someone who had done naught to provoke her ire. Instead she dug up a shard of Briggs and chiselled it into a glare.

Roy Mustang, dressed to the nines. A black suit, fitted and trim. A white scarf accentuating the darkness pleasantly. His hair slicked back. A silver wristwatch clearly meant to evoke his State Alchemist emblem. Eyes dark and vibrant.

Armstrong understood the appeal he had to so many men and women, who could scarcely see past his pretty-boy façade to the incompetence beneath. Even more so than with Hawkeye’s more frivolous friends, she tolerated his presence on her fiancée’s behalf, and not a centimetre more. “The same could be said for you, Flame Alchemist.”

Edward glanced at Armstrong, then Mustang, then back at Armstrong, and hastily excused himself.

“Well, with my gloves off, I’m _almost_ human.” Mustang smirked wryly. “I’ve heard that you’re no longer living in your mansion.”

Had she been keeping her location secret, she would have simply left the conversation in its cold, barren tracks. Yet to some extent she trusted him, for his past actions, and for their dual entanglement with Hawkeye. “I’ve been sharing Captain Hawkeye’s apartment for the past few months.” Her lip curled. “Prior to the engagement.”

“I see.” He fiddled with his appearance, first with his cuff, then with his collar. “It’s a bit stuffy in here. Shall we retire to the veranda?”

“Drop the gentleman act.” Nonetheless she followed him as he opened the balcony doors with an air of secretly possessing the entire house. Armstrong clicked the entrance shut behind them. “What the hell do you want?”

“I assume that you don’t smoke,” he said instead.

She narrowed her eyes to slits. Stepped forward. Dug her fingers into the starched fabric of his moronically dark dress shirt. “You’ve known me half a decade. What the goddamn fuck are you talking about?”

Mustang shrugged. “Calm down, Führer Armstrong, please. I was merely pointing out that you could smoke out here, if you wanted. You seem rather . . .” He allowed the silence to stretch onwards. The backyard trees had grown into the railing of the balcony, wood painted over white and coated with a thin layer of a lustrous shine. Overhead the horned moon sneered.

Cold. Not the true cold of Briggs, which sank into one’s flesh and spread its crystals like a virus through one’s veins, the utter, the alien, the inhuman. But a chill that retained just enough humanity to freeze less the body than the soul.

“. . . tense.” He clicked his jaws together to punctuate the word along with a sudden expulsion of breath.

She smashed her fist against the balcony rim; the exceedingly thin covering of frost upon the surface. “Enlighten me, Flame Alchemist. I’m certain that you’re perfectly at ease while I drown in a sea of perfect strangers; I _wonder_ why I’m so fucking uncomfortable.”

“You’ve had five years. You’ve seen most of them before.”

Her right eyebrow twitch. “Don’t patronise me. I’ll take you to a Briggs reunion, see what you say.”

“Ah, but Briggs had moved on, hasn’t it? What’s her name. Peizhi Huo, right? General Huo has taken over Briggs, and they say that the men are a single unit.” He _hmm_ ed. A hum, or a noise of contemplation. Her hands shook either way. “They haven’t forgotten you, but the major players that you associated with your reign have all but left. And you still haven’t assimilated to Central. Quite an interesting position you’re in. _Sir_.”

Armstrong snorted out a huff of air. “Is that supposed to intimidate me? I know what I’m willing to sacrifice for Amestris. If that includes creature comforts, then so be—”

He hissed out a breath. By the time she lifted her chin to observe him his eyebrows had snapped together to a furrowed ridge. “Friends are creature comforts, then.” He paused. “ _Human relationships_ are creature comforts.”

“ _No_.” The word escaped her lips with a greater velocity than she had intended, but she did not keep regrets. “Don’t misquote me, incompetent bastard. To rise in rank as I have requires discipline and a loyalty to the country above all. You swooped in on a few heroics and theatrics. Smoke and mirrors.”

“Smoke,” he repeated.

The silence threatened to ice them both. He broke first, and she smiled grimly to herself: “So you would choose Amestris over Riza.”

The first name. Intimate. Personal. _Taboo_. Plunging the discourse from a matter of politics and military strategies to a matter of the fickle heart, as though he had shattered some transparent glass barrier to reveal a twisted wonderland on the other side.

 _Riza_.

“You loved her.” Each syllable a scythe sharpened at the whetstone of truth.

Mustang lowered his eyelids to a melancholy half-mast, like he were smouldering at some blushing schoolgirl, and she resisted the urge to smash his face inwards completely. In place of injuring him—as much as she craved the utter demolition of his countenance to uncover his intentions. The walls between them burned but tearing them down would burn further. “I’ve known her since I was a boy. I might have . . . imprinted on her, you could say. But I don’t think that I would call that _love_ the way you mean it.” He riveted his gaze on Armstrong’s and she met his eyes with a steadfastness that surprised him, judging by the perceptible widened edges of his pupils. “I love her. I am not _in_ love with her.” The final word slipped off into a choked laughter; he covered his lower face with a hand. His left. “Two friends, now, that I’ve lost in some way or another. Humans truly can’t help falling in love, can they?”

“So, what? You figured you would cruise through life with your precious lieutenant by your side, platonic life partners—” Armstrong bathed her timbre in a sarcasm so deep that the double-edged blade cut in her at the same time. “—married in your hearts or whatever the hell the rumour was when I first stepped foot in this miserable city?”

The bone of her lower jaw ached. She brushed the second knuckle of her forefinger over the underside, sensed the taut muscle tensed to nearly the internal breaking point, and unclenched the set of her jaw. Her skin felt warped, loose and dry.

“Oh, you’re one to patronise me when you’ve done the same with your lapdog?” He chuckled dryly at his own apparent attempt at a joke. “Miles.”

Had she held his wrist in her hand, she would have mangled his bone. “Lieutenant Colonel Miles has been in Ishval for the past half-decade and agreed to come work for me as a lieutenant in my first term as Führer. His decision.” His shoulders bowed downwards as though sagging from the increasing heaviness of her gaze. “And he knew what he had to sacrifice to serve Amestris just as much as I did.”

“Amestris or Riza?”

For an ephemeral snapshot of ice Armstrong could not see the answer for its cloak, a fog of sentiment and irrationality that she jettisoned away. She felt rather than heard the shape of her country: the open mouth for the _ahh_ , the gently touched kiss of the _mm_ , the widening of the _eee_ and tip of the tongue-touch to the roof of the _sss_ , the sharp puff of the _trr_ and smile of the _ai_ , the susurrus of the final _sss_ that lingered in a _ssshhh_ of the silence after the end. “Amestris.”

He lowered his hand from his face to the railing. For all of his so-called strength she studied his balance and found him almost shivering where he stood. Or perhaps she was projecting something on him in her own—not insecurity. _Not_ insecurity. Never insecurity.

“I see.” His voice: softer than snow. His words: colder than ice. “And you think you love her. You think you’re fit to marry her?”

“Yes. Because I know my priorities, and so does she.” Her hand wrapped around the barrel of the gun at her hip. Not to draw it. But to remind herself of its existence. “This is why you could never be Führer, Mustang.” The horned moon overhead had lowered in the sky to graze the tops of the trees as though descending into hell. Fire. Although the final level was supposedly coated in ice. To her knowledge, however, no one had descended and returned to correct the elites who believed that they had somehow reduced all of hell to something that could be printed in a book to fit in a pocket.

Because hell wasn’t a place, but an emotion.

“Your codependence is sickening.”

Prior to his response—whatever response he could issue to that—the doors of the balcony flew open and a word tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop herself:

“ _Riza_.”

Intimate. Personal.

Taboo.


End file.
